Watch, Never Waver
by Snazzy Suit
Summary: Our job is to observe the Infected and record all abnormalities. We are not not kill or hinder the Infected unless we are in immediate danger. No exceptions. Even if it will save the life of a Survivor. But how are we supposed to ignore a child being held captive by an Infected? When the Lion adopts the Gazelle, things never end well...
1. The Sound of Silence

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Left 4 Dead. At all. Seriously, I don't. XD

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It's quiet.

Such an odd word to use to describe a city. I've only been to such a place one other time in my life, and 'quiet' was the last word I would have used to describe it. My ears always rang with the great cacophony of city life. It was so much to take in. I remember not getting much sleep; my usual lullaby of crickets and tree frogs having been replaced by the dissonance of far-off car alarms and sirens. My only comfort had been the gentle coo of the pigeons that had taken roost outside my hotel window. Funny, considering many urban residents see them as pests.

Buildings, bridges and billboards had all been lined with unsettling strips of spikes placed to discourage the feathered creatures from making these locations their home. I couldn't help but smile whenever I spotted a nest wedged between the warped wires, a testament to the tenacity of those quirky little birds.

Tenacity…I suppose that is why I'm still here. Why I'm around to see this city in such an alien state.

I close my eyes, playing the imaginary soundtrack of this once bustling concrete jungle in my mind. I can hear the never ending cycle of honking horns, the sirens occasionally echoing through the gaps in the buildings, the steady pace of thousands of footsteps, the mingling of voices into incoherent babble, and the rapping of wings as a flock of birds soars overhead.

It is that which is the heartbeat of this city.

I open my eyes and step to the edge of the rooftop while surveying my surroundings. The streets are dotted with abandoned cars, some overturned and ablaze, others locked up tight. Like anyone was around to steal them, much less care. I fixate my gaze on one, becoming lost in the steady blink of the red light indicating an active alarm. I shudder, remembering what would descend should a stray bullet find its way to that vehicle.

A buzzing sound draws my attention to a billboard behind me. The steady hum comes from the lights illuminating a faded advertisement, which flicker eerily until one finally goes out. I study the faces plastered on the board: a mother, a father, a few kids, all enjoying some new kind of beverage. I knew more than likely they weren't a real family, just actors paid to promote a product, but that fact is not enough to stop that sharp pain in my heart. A part of my brain dully wonders if those people are still alive, if they were evacuated.

If they became one of them.

The once happy grins morph into bloody snarls; the eyes take on an unnatural glow. I quickly look away and shake my head as an inhuman shriek sounds in my mind. I silently scold myself for allowing my imagination to get the better of me. There was enough real danger out there to bother with creating fictitious ones.

I close my eyes again and inhale deeply. In an attempt to calm myself, I begin to smother my swirling thoughts by taking in the sounds around me. It's a coping mechanism; something I've done for as long as I can remember. Whenever I'm anxious or upset, I pool all my focus into my most powerful sense: hearing. Perhaps my hearing may not be as keen as a visually impaired individual, but I still pride myself with its impressive range. In just a short amount of time I will have developed a "map" of what is going on around me. Who or what's nearby, how many, and so on. It has always intrigued me how much information you can get just by quieting your mind and listening to your surroundings. I remember testing my hearing outside times of stress, as a sort of entertainment. During long walks, I would pick up on the purr of an approaching car and try to determine what type of vehicle it was before it came into view. In large crowds, I found myself tuning in and out of a variety of conversations to see just how clearly I could pick up the words. It wasn't that I was nosy, in fact I could care less about the potential gossip I acquired, it was simply a way to hone my abilities.

I never would have guessed it would become the key to my survival.

My heart rate is just starting to slow down when a sudden nudge jolts me back into high alert. I quickly turn to face whatever disturbed me, ready to defend myself. Instead of striking, the offender rears back in surprise.

"Whoa sis! It's just me," one arm reaches out cautiously, the other remains raised in defense, "I just wanted to see if you're alright. You seem kind of out of it today."

I blink dumbly for a moment before letting out a ragged sigh, slumping my shoulders in the process. "Jesus Russel, you scared the shit out of me! What were you thinking sneaking around like that? What if I had been armed?" I gesture to the M1911 pistol safely tucked away in its holster on my hip. "I could have shot you! I could have-"

The look on my brother's face brings an abrupt end to my rant. His deep blue eyes house such genuine concern, it would be impossible to yell at him over something so insignificant. Especially when my anger was drawn more from the fact I didn't hear him coming than the actual offense. Damaged pride is no reason to create conflict. I straighten up and gently brush his hand aside. "I'm sorry Russ; I didn't mean to worry you. I just got a little lost in my head is all."

Russel drops his guard, relieved at both my answer and my attempt to control my temper. My brother's lax posture then quickly builds itself back up into what I can only call his default 'Cocky Bastard' stance.

"Ah-ha! So, even the mighty bat can get lost in its cave." he chides playfully.

Why didn't I yell at him again?

I frown, not amused by the comment. My brother knows all about my exceptional hearing and how I use it. As such, he has found it appropriate to create a variety of nicknames for me, most of which involve a certain nocturnal mammal. (There were a few about Dumbo, but they never stuck, as my ears are quite proportional to my body.)

I yawn, feigning boredom. "Really Russ, you need to get some new material. Your bat jokes have lost their charm."

My brother cups his mouth and widens his eyes in exaggerated surprise. "Damn I've gone stale! No matter, nothing like a little critique to get me back in the game." He pulls out an imaginary notepad and pen, ready to take notes. "Tell me Erin, where do I begin mending my comedic act?"

I turn to him, trying to wear the most believable mask of professionalism the situation would allow. "Well, for one you need to better understand the subject of your jokes."

Russel mock scribbles onto the non-existent paper. "Of course! Educate me, my dear sister. What is it like to have super human hearing?"

I roll my blue-green eyes and take a step towards the 'struggling comedian'. "Super human? Not even close. It's slightly above average at best." I reach out and flick my brother's ear. "You would be able to hear the way I do if you didn't listen to music at max volume. Seriously, were you trying to go deaf?"

It goes quiet for a few seconds. His eyes never leave mine. Then slowly, he tilts his head toward me all while cupping his ear, his eyebrows drawn together in faux confusion.

"What?"

Wow, who hadn't seen _that_ coming?

I swiftly sweep a foot behind one of his ankles, hook it, and tug as hard as I can. My brother cries out in alarm before landing flat on his ass.

And guess who didn't see that one coming?

"Son of a- was that really necessary?"

"Was your poor attempt at humor necessary?" I retort.

"…touché."

I can't help but smile. My brother always seemed to find a way to brighten my mood. Even if this time it was at his expense. I extend a hand, offering to help him to his feet. He gratefully accepts the gesture. Upon standing, Russel winces and dramatically leans on me for support.

"Ah shit!" He hisses. "I think I broke my…ass. I-I don't think I can walk on my own. You'll have to carry me."

Russel searches my face for a reaction. All he is met with is a blank stare.

"Too much?"

"An understatement, I assure you." I deadpan, literally shrugging him off. A few strands of my chestnut colored hair fall in front of my face, having been freed from my ponytail. I quickly sweep them back into their restraints before addressing my brother. "Enough with the jokes, how long until our little 'tour group' is ready to move on? I feel like we've been here far too long."

Russel's expression immediately hardens at my question. The once calm blue of his eyes now contain an icy bite. It's sometimes frightening just how quickly my brother adjusts to serious topics, especially when it involves _those_ people.

"It shouldn't be much longer. Most of the infected have wandered somewhere else for whatever reason, so they'll be wrapping up pretty soon." He doesn't comment on my time observation, but I can tell by the way he's scanning the streets below that he shares my concern. No good comes from remaining in one place.

"Thank God. It's bad enough we're forced into this hell on a daily basis, but it's even worse when we have to deal with Shelters."

Now when I say Shelter, I'm not referring to some man made construction. It's a name we veterans of this apocalypse have given to those who had not experienced the hellish nightmare that was the outbreak. A select few were considered "important" enough (or were just plain lucky) to be evacuated before shit really hit the fan. If it isn't obvious by my bitter tone, I'm holding a pretty impressive grudge. Not that I'm alone in this mindset. Many survivors feel the same way. (Seriously, how could we not?)

My brother nods, absent mindedly scratching his head, ruffling his already messy dark brown hair. "I just don't know what's worse, the Blisters or the Callouses," he groans.

These nicknames are less known. Only the survivors in my brother and I's line of 'work' are familiar with these terms.

Blisters are what we call the Shelters that go out into this post-apocalyptic world for the first time. At the beginning of our 'tour', they are elated for the opportunity to study the infection outside their protective walls. They're like kids at some fucked up zoo, pointing excitedly at the creatures that we watched kill our friends and family.

That _were_ our friends and family.

It's sickening, seeing these people take so lightly the very thing that ruined our lives. I barely keep myself from snapping anytime I'm assigned to guard these groups. The only consolation, I suppose, is by the end of our screwed up safari most of them will have had first-hand experience of just what the infected are capable of, quickly wiping away those infuriating grins. Not that I have anything to do with that. I mean, no one can prove that I _intentionally_ neglect to alert the group of the occasional Hunter or Smoker that just wants to offer a greeting to the eager Blisters. Besides, they wanted to see how the Infected act in their 'natural habitat'. What better way to get this information than by being on the business end of a pounce?

I slowly take a seat and prop myself up against the short brick wall bordering the rooftops' edge. "Tough call. They're both pretty high on my shit list." I ponder this for a moment before giving my answer. "As annoying as they are, I tend to tolerate the Blisters a bit more seeing as I can use the Infected as tools for sweet revenge."

My brother chuckles as he plops down next to me. "Amen to that. There isn't much that brings me more joy than getting front row seats to those freak outs. I'd high five those zombie bastards as long as I was sure I'd be able to get my hand back."

I snort at the mental image of Russel emphatically smacking the clawed hand of a confused Hunter. I practically choke when my mind conjures up the idea of my brother trying to fist bump a Charger. Russel appears pleased with my reaction to his comment at first, but then looks thoroughly confused when I begin laughing a little too hard. I quickly explain the cause of my outburst, if only to assure him it wasn't an overdone sympathy laugh. Apparently I do a decent job painting a mental picture, because he loses it almost immediately, causing me to go into another fit.

Admittedly, the subject of our amusement wasn't really all that funny. Though to be fair, not much could be these days. Survivors quickly learned to find humor and peace in the small things. At least, that is what I attributed to our lots remaining sanity. Often times I found myself concerned about the distinct lack of antidepressants and anxiety medications to go around, because it meant we had to cope. If you couldn't, you were dead. I realized that I used my focus of sounds as a way to relax and distress, but worried over my brothers.

Too often lately he had been using others humor as a means to make himself feel secure in his livelihood; to remind himself of his own worth. I wanted to help him realize that he means more than a smile on my face, but for now I would settle for making him laugh.

Our bizarre cachinnating slowly dies down until it is nothing more than quiet snickering and, eventually, ceases entirely. We sit in silence, enjoying the brief light-hearted moment we shared, each wishing it could last a little longer.

Times like these are so hard to come by. In truth, it has become more of a chore to attempt to savor them than to simply let them pass through. In the short-lived contented moment we've had, my mind has already scrambled to our original topic.

"If only…it were so easy to get under the Callouses' skin." I utter just above a whisper.

Russel says nothing, only tilts his head back and sighs in what I can only assume to be begrudging agreement.

It goes quiet once more, leaving me to my thoughts of the people I so greatly despised.

The little 'accidents' my brother and I arrange don't break everyone. These people continue to venture into the apocalyptic world, unphased by what lurks in the shadows. They observe the Infected, methodically breaking down their behavior with their cold eyes. The Infected weren't seen as human, but valuable subjects of an experiment. Now don't get me wrong, if you wanted to survive, you had to quickly stop looking at the Infected as people. Thinking of who the Infected once were, what they lost, would only cause you to hesitate when the time came to pull the trigger. But these people, the Callouses as we came to call them, didn't obtain this mindset as a way to keep their sanity. They viewed the Infected as what they were: Predators driven by instinct. As for us?

We were the prey.

I remember watching animal documentaries as a child; how upset they made me. I couldn't believe that the experts describing the scene before them could just sit back and watch as a Lion took down a Gazelle. I would cry to my mother, asking why they wouldn't save the poor Gazelle. She did her best to calm me down, explaining that it was nature, that it wouldn't be right to interfere. It took a while, but I finally understood what she was trying to tell me. But this…this is different. This virus, the inappropriately dubbed Green Flu, is anything _but_ natural.

That's what bothers me the most. The Callouses don't care that it isn't natural. They still treat this like it's one of those documentaries. The Infected are the Lion and the survivors are the Gazelle. The Callouses sit back and watch the bloody massacre, labeling their soulless act as 'research'. What the fuck do you learn by watching diseased abominations rip apart other people? The logic doesn't matter to them. All that matters is that they do their job: observe the Infected, to hell with the cost, in order to determine better methods of defense and, most importantly, discover a cure. My job? My brother's job? The job of all those unfortunate enough to be called Carrier?

To put it simply, we are the meat shields.

You would think being immune to the virus would make you valuable. It does, that is, if you are _truly_ immune. Yes, there is such a thing. To be called 'Immune', your body must not contain any trace of the virus. Those people, however, are few and far between. Not that there is an overabundance of 'my kind' or anything. 'My kind' being the Carriers. Carriers do not show any symptoms of the infection, but house the virus in their body and are still very capable of spreading it. (No biting or scratching necessary.)

For lack of a better description, we're walking used tissues. Not the best way to phrase it mind you, but based on how Carriers are treated I'd say it's pretty damn accurate. Those that are not immune (which greatly outnumber us by the way) are disgusted by Carriers. They fear our existence. No…_hate_ it. Sometimes, I feel they despise us more than the Infected. At least when you're Infected, it's easy to tell. I mean, it's kind of hard to miss a pale, growth covered nightmare trying to eat your damn face. A Carrier, on the other hand, could be anybody. Without a proper test, there's no knowing until it's too late. People aren't patient enough for that. Bullets, more often than not, seem to be the best answer.

Better safe than sorry.

This was almost the fate of my brother and I, along with many other Carriers. It was believed that there was no place in this world for 'my kind', that we were a threat to the future of humanity. The only reasonable solution in these people's minds was to line us all up against a wall in front of a firing squad.

Better safe than sorry.

Fortunately, not everyone allowed fear to cloud their rationality. A decent amount actually fought for our lives. In the end, it was agreed that we would be spared. Of course, this came with a condition. In exchange for their 'kindness', Carriers would be required to assist in dealing with the Infection in any way possible. This ranges from defending safe zones to handling Infected specimens brought to the laboratories. Then there's my shitty position, guarding the Shelters as they research Infected in the field.

Sometimes, the firing squad sounds pretty inviting.

I'm unaware of my brother's eyes trained on me, observing me, concerned by my distant look. I don't even realize he has moved until I feel something small and slightly jagged smack into my temple. It doesn't really hurt, sting a little yes, but the minor annoyance is enough to break me free from my trance. My head snaps in the direction the strike came from, expecting to see my brother still by my side. I'm surprised to find that he is a good five yards away.

"Not bad, not bad. Pretty good practice shot anyway." Russel says to no one in particular before striding over to me. I quirk an eyebrow as he leans down beside me to retrieve…

"_Is…is that a piece of a brick?"_

That's when it clicks. "Did you just throw a fucking chunk of a brick at me?" I shriek. "At my _head_?"

"A chunk?" he parrots, "This is a chip at best."

"Like it matters!" I snap, "You could have put one of my eyes out or something!"

"But I didn't did I? Besides, your head was turned to the side. Kind of an awkward angle to pull something like that off."

I open my mouth, about to start into a rant about how he was missing the point when a question surfaces in my mind. "Wait, what did you mean when you said 'Practice shot'?"

My younger sibling smirks, pleased that I abandoned my irritation in favor of curiosity. "Ah, you caught that now did you? Well I'm glad you asked." He gestures to the brick 'chip'. "Gather a few more of these and I'll tell you."

"Does it have to be brick?" I sigh, unable to believe I actually wanted to know what Russel was up to.

"Brick, concrete, rock, I don't care as longs as it's hard and small."

I glare at him for a moment before rolling my eyes. "Fine, I'll get what you want if you agree to stop throwing shit at me." He nods as I rise to my feet and turn to search for his supplies. I can't help but notice his face twist up in amusement when he over hears me mutter my less than pleasant opinion of the situation.

"_Eavesdropping is my thing damn it!" _I shout internally as I scoop up a handful of debris lying at the base of a slightly damaged wall. I quickly return to my brother with my findings and drop them unceremoniously into his hand. "There, is that enough for…whatever the hell it is you're doing?"

He briefly looks over the rubble, checking to see if it met his requirements before nodding his approval. "This will do nicely."

"Awesome, you have a fine collection of crap. What exactly do you plan do with it?" I press, growing impatient.

"Easy now," my brother teases while wagging a finger, "it's best if I show you. It wouldn't do my idea justice if I tried explaining it."

Russel takes the brick and concrete debris over to the wall bordering the rooftops' edge and piles it on top. Curious, I quickly join his side, if only to observe his next action. My brother begins sorting the rubble by size, type, and weight, apparently, judging by the way he keeps comparing different pieces in his hands like makeshift scales. This continues for a bit longer that it should, and I'm beginning to think this is all just an elaborate scheme to piss me off when he finally selects a chunk roughly the size of a ping pong ball. Russel leans over the ledge slightly, scanning the streets below.

"_Wait…is he?"_

For a split terrifying second, I believe my brother intends to locate a car with an active alarm and set it off. Before I can object to such an idiotic idea, he tosses the brick chunk in the air, watching as it arcs toward its target. I shut my eyes tight, waiting for the inevitable wail of an alarm and, eventually, the howl of Infected hell bent on punishing those that disturbed the silence. Instead, I hear the faint echo of the brick hitting the concrete followed by Russel swearing under his breath.

"Ah! So close!" He cries in frustration. "If that little bastard hadn't moved I _so_ would have got him!"

I follow my brother's gaze to the other side of the street. Instead of finding a deathtrap of security armed vehicles like I feared, I spot three common Infected shambling out of a narrow alleyway. I turn to Russel, scrunching up my face in disbelief.

"You were trying to hit one of _them_?"

The sheepish grin that creeps across my brother's face is all the answer I need.

"How the hell is 'chucking rocks at zombies' a difficult idea to explain?"

Russel picks up another piece of rubble and inspects it, as if it was the material that caused him to miss in the first place. "It isn't. I just knew if I told you my idea you never would have let me do it."

"Well no shit!" I snap. "Our job is to keep the Infected at bay, not try and piss them off!"

My brother waves his hand in dismissal. "Oh calm down, there's only three of them. They're not any threat. Besides, I _am_ doing a part of our job."

I narrow my eyes and take a cement chunk from my brother's pile, holding it out to him for emphasis. "Just what does pelting Commons with debris have to do with our job?"

"Simple my dear Erin: It's an opportunity for study!" Russel adjusts his imaginary glass before continuing. "Though our top priority is protecting the Shelters, we are also to document anything we learn about the Infected. Or did you forget that?"

I subconsciously pat at the note pad tucked away in one of the many pockets of my protective vest. "No I…wait you still haven't explained what you expect to gain from all this! What could you possibly learn from this stupid game?"

"Game? I never thought of it that way. Great idea Erin! We can gather data and have fun!"

I glare at my brother, dumbfounded that he found a way to turn this around on me. I don't even get the chance to protest when he makes another attempt to use the Infected as target practice. Surprisingly enough, the chunk actually hits its mark this time, striking the shoulder of a stout Infected man. The Common whips around at the sudden contact, teeth bared at the possibility of prey. I can almost see the look of confusion through the grime coating his face when he finds nothing there.

The man turns slightly, spotting one of his Infected brothers leaning against a light post as he expels bile from his tall lanky body. The stout Infected takes a step forward and hisses a warning to what his diseased mind believes to be the offender. The lanky Infected's head jerks up at the sound, puzzled by his brother's sudden outburst. He issues his own warning, though this one is in the form of a growl, before plopping down on the filthy sidewalk.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice my brother's form is shuddering with suppressed laughter. I look at him in bewilderment. Did he actually find this funny? I feel like I should dive into some lecture about how screwed up this whole thing was when I realize something: I'm smiling.

Holy shit, we share the same fucked up sense of humor.

"Did you see that?" he chokes. "That was freaking awesome!"

"The fact you hit one or his reaction to it?"

"Both. That shot has to be worth at least fifty points. The reaction is a bonus." Russel answers proudly.

"Oh so there's a point system now?" I arc an eyebrow. "Since when did we start keeping score?"

In an instant that 'Cocky Bastard' look resurfaces. "_We_ started the moment _you_ showed interest in playing."

I want to try and defend myself. To deny the truth in his words, but I know it's no use. There's not a doubt in my mind he caught my smile before I could hide it. "Fine, I'll play." I sigh, admitting defeat. "But if I win I get to hit _you_ in the head with a brick."

"A _chip_ of a brick…right?" My brother questions warily, wanting clarification.

"…Sure."

"Alright, let's do this!" He cries enthusiastically, ignoring my shaky answer. "You're up sis. Try not to fuck up too bad."

I roll my eyes, not dignifying his comment with a response. Clenching the cement chunk I still had from before, I step closer to the wall bordering the edge of the roof. I roll it around in my fingers for a moment, trying to get a feel for the object as I selected my target. A second later, I launch the rubble into the air and watch as it sails toward the Infected. I had hoped to maybe hit one in the back, or at least clip an arm, but I never thought I'd actually nail one in the _head. _Especially when it struck the Infected I wasn't even _aiming_ for.

The unlucky (and unintended) target was the lanky Infected that had taken a seat after being falsely accused of our idiotic crime. He lets out a yelp of surprise and doubles over. After recovering from the initial shock, the lanky Common leaps to his feet and begins angrily swatting at empty space. Upon realizing the attacker wasn't there, he pauses and rotates until his eyes settle on the stout Infected that hissed at him earlier.

The lanky man draws back his lips, revealing crooked bloody teeth before letting out a vicious snarl. The stout Common whirls around with arms spread wide, meeting the challenge, though unsure of its cause, with a deep threatening growl. Both Infected exchange several more audible threats, not unlike that of territorial felines, but never actually attempt a strike. Eventually, their bickering dies down and they return to milling about aimlessly, occasionally glancing at each other in anticipation of another attack.

I had not noticed it, but at some point during the Common's spat I covered my mouth with a hand. Whether it was to stifle a laugh, a cry of alarm, or both, I can't say for sure. I quickly compose myself and, slapping on that God awful "cocky bastard" mask Russel always made sure to wear for me, turn to my brother.

"One-hundred points." I state calmly, "Plus bonus."

Russel's face appears to be at war with itself. His jaw can't seem to decide if it wants to clench or go slack. The muscles at the edge of his lips have a similar dilemma, relaxing only to twitch back into an involuntary grin. It's as if my brother doesn't know if he should be gawking at my apparent skill or snickering at the Infected's expense. In the end, Russel decides to shrug it off as 'beginner's luck'.

"Not bad Erin." He reaches for our pile and retrieves two cement chunks, offering one to me. "Though it doesn't really mean much since the guy you hit wasn't even _moving_."

"Oh bullshit!" I roughly grab the rubble from his outstretched hand. "As if you can call the guy _you_ hit a moving target! The Infected take like, what, one shambling footstep every three minutes? That's hardly a challenge."

"They're a lot faster than that sis." He counters.

"Yeah, when someone rings a fucking dinner bell." I retort.

Russel holds up a hand. "Look, we're not gonna get anywhere by arguing. There's only one way to settle this. We each take a chunk," he gestures to the debris we are holding, "and throw it at the same time. Whoever hits the Infected first wins."

"That seems like it won't be fair to one of us." I point out, "Whoever does the countdown will have the advantage."

"True…" He concedes. "Okay, whoever gets closest to a head shot wins the game."

"Isn't that what we've been trying to do this whole time?"

"Just shut up and throw a rock at the goddamn zombie."

My brother doesn't wait for further argument, and I don't attempt to start one. He silently signals for me to get ready and holds up three fingers, beginning a countdown. When Russel reaches his last finger we both take aim and hurl the small chunks at our intended targets. My brother's cement chip nails the lanky Infected in the lower back. My projectile hits the pavement and, surprisingly, bounces up and makes contact with the stout Infected's scapula. Another lucky shot, as my sibling would put it. He doesn't get the opportunity to call bullshit or make up some reason my throw didn't count, because the Infected's reaction is immediate. There's no hissing or spitting or threatening growls, just pure pissed off shrieks of rage. The Commons lunge at each other, creating an ungodly commotion as they try to punish the other for not heeding their warning. The two Infected roll around for quite a while, swatting and biting, piercing the once calm air with their cries. Then, there's an unexpected twist.

The third Common, a young petite woman whom had been fortunate enough to not become a target, begins to visibly show signs of agitation. She sways slightly, clutching her head in attempt to block out the sound of her brother's quarrel. The petite Infect bats a hand in the direction of the two Commons, baring her teeth and issuing a verbal warning via growl. The threat, which I barely heard myself, is lost, unnoticed by the preoccupied Infected. Eventually, the petite Common can take it no longer and, with a bloodcurdling shriek that rivals that of a Witch, leaps into the fray. The only thing more frightening than the woman's cry was her strength. I can't help but find it humorous that she quickly has the other two squabbling infected on the run.

Apparently, my brother found the whole situation humorous as well. Though, I don't think the word 'humorous' properly describes his feelings. When I turn to Russel, he appears to be having difficulty standing, greatly relying on the roof's border for support. Tears are streaming down his face, which is beginning to turn a deep shade of red from the strength of his laughter. Well, his _silent_ laughter anyway. Though my brother displayed every other sign of amusement, he failed to produce any sound except the occasional gasp to catch his breath. Very rarely have I seen my brother so overwhelmed by something that he was incapable of audibly expressing his joy.

Note to self: If I want Russel to shut up, I need to piss off some zombies.

I'm about to commit that little observation to memory when my brother's laugh finally surfaces after a short choking fit. So much for peace and quiet. I mentally scrap the note before attempting to calm my younger sibling.

"Jesus Russ take a breath! It wasn't _that_ funny."

My brother nods, mouthing an accompanied agreement as he attempts to regain composure. "I…I know." He chokes. "It just…It hit me just right!" He wheezes the last part before starting back into another fit. I shake my head and utter a sigh as I turn my attention back to the enraged Infected, doing my best to resist joining my brother in his nonsensical state.

"_Let him enjoy this moment a little longer." _The kinder half of my mind offers. _"If nothing else, it will be all the sweeter when you remind him of your arrangement." _I smirk at my own deviousness, casting a glance at Russel as I absent mindedly fiddle with the remaining brick debris in our pile.

A quiet snicker slips out before I can stop it. Thankfully, my brother is so lost in his own chuckle fest that he doesn't hear it, or at least chooses to ignore it. I sigh in relief, not wanting Russel to get suspicious before I can exact my revenge. I squeeze the brick chunk firmly in my hand as I try to decide the perfect moment to make my move. Before I get the opportunity, a new sound stops me in my tracks.

"_Is that…giggling?"_

In retrospect, that seems like a dumb question. My brother is currently bringing a whole new meaning to the acronym 'LOL', so of course I should be hearing _some_ form of laughter. But this giggling doesn't sound like his at all. I can pick it out when Russel takes a breath, indicating a second source. I slow my breathing and close my eyes, trying my best to lock onto the odd noise. It appears to be coming from our right…no, it's behind us now. Wait…

It's getting closer.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

We learned some very important things this chapter. For example, if you see Common Infected fighting, it's probably because some assholes were throwing rocks at them. BD *Bricked*

Anywho, I suffered another case of "Made a chapter too damn long...itis". Yeah, this bugger was turning into a whopping twenty-six pages in Microsoft Word. 0_o I love it when I start a chapter, have a general idea what it will consist of, and then as I am typing I keep coming up with more crap. D: It was _really_ hard to pick out place to end chapter one and start chapter two, which is _technically_ completed by the way. (Still editing it...'cause it's poop! D: )

Oh well, I hope Chapter One of Watch, Never Waver has piqued your interest. :) Remember! Reviews are always welcome, whether you want to tell me what you like/dislike about the story or critique me as a writer.


	2. The First of Many

There it is again. A second cackle has me spinning on my heels. I silently curse my environment, the maze of buildings providing the perfect conditions for an echo, making it difficult to precisely pinpoint the sound's origin. Russel appears to not have taken any notice to the impending danger, still lost in his own fit of laughter. I furiously shake his shoulder, desperate to bring my brother back to reality. He blearily looks at me with one watery eye, the other scrunched like the rest of his face in laughter and his cheeks a splotchy red. When Russel meets my eyes, however, he immediately detects something is amiss. His face falls, receiving the unspoken message.

We have company.

My brother swiftly rises to a defensive stance, the easy moment gone as swiftly as the tears he wiped from his eyes, the eerie cachinnating finally reaching his ears. I match his pose and position myself behind Russel's back; a formation we often take to eliminate each other's blind spots. Russel and I anxiously survey our surroundings, hoping to spot the threat before it got too close. We've gotten good at scanning opposing sides without having to voice where they are looking; we both always look to our left first, effectively covering all ground. I'm about to retrieve my M1911 from its holster when a manic howl startles me, redirecting my attention. I whip around to see the source of the bloodcurdling cry emerge from the shadows cast by a rooftop stairwell.

"Jockey!"

My warning is too little, too late. Russel turns just in time to find the giggling freak of nature lunging for his head. My brother cries in alarm as he is suddenly thrown into the horribly unpleasant experience that is the Jockey Ride.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me!" Russel shrieks as the deformed abomination claws at his face in an attempt to steer his unlucky victim.

I'm frozen with shock, my mind unable to settle on what to do first. Without thinking, I throw the rubble I still had clutched in my hand as hard as I can at the Infected monstrosity. It strikes the Jockey's jutted spine, but the giggling maniac takes no notice.

If anything, I think it's laughing even harder.

"What the hell was that?" My brother snaps in disbelief to the air three feet from me, barely able to maintain a sense of direction with his rider. "Stop throwing shit at it and get this son of a bitch off of me!"

I mentally slap myself for such a stupid act. Today really wasn't my fucking day. I start to reach for my pistol, but decide against it for fear of shooting Russel by mistake. Instead, I run up behind the Jockey and wrap my arms around its waist, tugging with all my might in hopes of freeing my brother. The misshapen Infected proves to be remarkably strong, if not just downright determined, and continues to direct Russel, as well as myself, to an unknown destination. His pace, however, is considerably slowed by my interference. Or, should I say, my _brother's_ pace is being hampered by my involvement.

Though the Jockey seems to be able to somewhat handle the stress, my sibling is not up to the task and eventually collapses under our combined weight, falling to his knees.

The Jockey, perhaps realizing his dilemma, releases Russel and propels himself off of my brother's back, harshly knocking me to the ground. I swiftly recover only to receive a powerful swipe across the face. Jockey's may not have claws like a Hunter, but that doesn't mean their blows don't sting like a bitch.

Furious, I lash out, landing a decent punch in the Infected's jaw. He staggers slightly before attempting to make me his new victim. I easily dodge his lunge and take the opportunity to spring my M1911 from its holster. As the Jockey turns back to me I take aim and fire off three shots. One grazes his calf and another makes a home in the Infected's shoulder, the third missing its target altogether. The injuries hardly seem to faze the Jockey, who quickly shakes it off and frantically skitters up the billboard housing the faded beverage advertisement.

I fire at the Infected, not wanting the abomination to get away and possibly return with help. I swear under my breath with each missed shot, frustrated with my inability to lock on to the erratic movements of the manic Jockey. To my surprise, the Infected does not attempt escape when he reaches the top. Instead, he trains his wild eyes on me and releases the most disturbing cackle I have ever heard.

That image is sure to visit my nightmares. The twisted bloody form of the Jockey highlighted by flickering lights, accompanied by an inappropriate backdrop in the form of an advertisement featuring a smiling family…

Truly. Fucked. _Up_.

As haunting as the sight was, it couldn't compare with what happened next. Immediately following the chilling cry, the Jockey hunkers down and springs from his perch. I realize far too late the Infected's true intention was not escape, but to gain a new vantage point. I try to defend myself, bringing my pistol up to meet the Jockey and squeezing the trigger only to discover my clip was empty. At the last second I attempt to pistol whip the Infected. The Jockey, however, has picked up too much speed for me to easily repel, and I'm brought to the ground with little resistance. The Infected hits me with a great amount of force, knocking the wind out of me. I lie there helpless, desperate, and gasping for air.

The deformed little man seems confused at first, perhaps unsure how to deal with prey that wasn't on its feet. Laughter pouring from the other as if he's a damaged faucet, the Jockey roughly grips my face, his filthy claws digging into my skin as he begins to lift my head from the ground. My eyes widen as the diseased horror pulls me closer to his grime caked face.

Well, what _used_ to be a face.

What I saw before me could barely be called human. It was as if someone tightly wrapped skin around a skull with too deep eye sockets and then burned away the lips in a macabre horizontal crescent. The creature has a permanent malicious grin, the right side cracked all the way to its temple bone. I couldn't decide which was more disturbing, the vacant discolored eyes or the inability to differentiate jagged blood coated teeth from gum line.

The Jockey helps me make up my mind when his relentless laughter morphs into a shriek, pelting my cheek with saliva along with the remains of his last meal. Bile rises in my throat, not just from the thought of what the Infected consumed, but from the _smell_. Rank, putrid, awful; none of these even come _close_ to properly describing the appalling odor of what I can only call heated death and decay.

Panic seizes my entire body, causing a new wave of adrenaline to wash over me. I latch on to one of the Jockey's hands and pry it from my face. I'm just about to free myself when the Infected finally registers my actions and snaps at the hand reaching for his other arm. I try to rise up but am caught by the shoulder and slammed back down. The diseased man rears back slightly only to begin viciously snapping at my neck. My reflexes just barely save me when I thrust my forearm under the Jockey's chin, barring him from inflecting a life threatening injury. It was working for the moment, but the Infected's persistence led me to question how long I could keep it up. I needed to kill this fucker. _Now_. But I wasn't sure if I could do it on my own.

"Russel!" I cry with desperation clear in my voice. "It would be fan-_fucking_-tastic if you'd help me out! Really! Anytime would be great!"

"Shit! You mean it's not dead?" Russel calls back, sounding legitimately surprised.

This reply takes me aback. Did he seriously think this was the best time to be cracking jokes? Right now? When a zombie is trying to turn me into an all you can eat buffet?

"No, I'm just rolling around with a corpse because I think it's fun!" I bark, my sarcastic tone laced with venom.

I hear something shuffling nearby. The sound is punctuated by a dull thud followed by swearing. "Erin! Where are you?"

The rage I felt is quickly replaced by a horrifying realization. Russel didn't know the Jockey is still alive. He can't find me, though I can't be more than a few yards away…

_He can't see._

How is that possible? Did the Infected gouge out my brother's eyes while he was riding him? No…something as agonizing as that would have elicited _some_ kind of response. You wouldn't be quiet if someone ripped your damn eyes out. The Jockey must have done something else during that short ride.

All I can do for the moment is hope that the effects aren't permanent.

Suddenly I no longer fear just for myself. If I fail to end this bastard before he kills me, Russel will be a sitting duck. I thrash violently; doing anything and everything I can to break free of the Jockey's grasp. Just when I gain some ground, the twisted monstrosity pushes back tenfold, erasing any progress I make. My energy is starting to fail me, and I'm running out of ideas.

This can't be it. After everything I went through to keep me and my brother alive. There was no way that it could end on such a low note. Moments ago we were laughing like nothing could happen and now…Now I'm stuck listening to an abomination laugh while I'm left hapless in its wake and my brother is defenseless should I fail. The added pressure of that knowledge, coupled with the heavy weight of the beast on my sternum, left me feeling as if my blood had curdled in my veins.

Surely there was a way to turn the tide in our favor.

Apparently, something out there agrees with me.

Seconds later, something launches itself at the Jockey, catching it by surprise and effectively freeing me from its clutches. I lie there motionless for a moment, trying to comprehend what just transpired. Eventually, I roll over and slowly push myself off the ground, careful not to agitate any unseen wounds I may have acquired.

_Russ...he finally found me…_

Once I get to my feet, I turn in the direction the Infected was thrown to, expecting to see my brother fending off the Jockey. I'm surprised to find someone else entirely. Judging by the height and build, I'd have to say my rescuer is a man. Early twenties perhaps? No older than my brother I'd think, though I can't be certain as his face is concealed by a full-face respirator gas mask. The man's clothing looks similar to the Army's combat uniform, though instead of camouflage it's a dark gray. He also sports light, yet durable body armor, black in color, as well as a vest overflowing with pouches. Strapped to his back is a Combat Shotgun, a med kit, and a fireman's axe. I also notice a P220 tucked away in a holster on his hip.

Other than the weapons difference and gas mask, we are dressed exactly alike.

The man is sitting on the Jockey's back, his weight keeping the frantic Infected from scrambling away. He swats the back of my attacker's head, chuckling at the bizarre noises the diseased creature emits as he claws desperately at the ground.

"Not so fun when _you're_ the one wearing the saddle is it, you ugly little fucker?" He jeers.

I instantly perk up, a grin spreading across my face. The mask may have prevented me from identifying the man at first, but after hearing his voice there's no mistaking it.

"Marcus!" I breathe with relief. "Where did you…How did-"

"Fire escape and luck," Marcus interrupts.

I blink dumbly, confused by his response. "What?"

"Where did I come from? How did I know you were in trouble? That's what you were trying to ask right?" Though the eye pieces of his gas mask are tinted, I can almost see the amusement in my friend's eyes. "Well, I came up through the fire escape just like you two and, more than likely, this asshole." Marcus smacks the Jockey for emphasis, earning a less than pleasant threatening cry. "As for knowing about your predicament…I didn't. I was sent to let you know we were ready to move on. Last thing I expected was to see you and Russel getting screwed over by a bald chimp. In other words, you're _really_ fucking lucky."

I make no argument. He was right. Had Marcus not shown up, Russel and I would probably be dead. I look away for a moment, ashamed at my failure to defend myself. It was just _one_ Special Infected. I mean, they're no laughing matter. A novice group, unfamiliar to the Infection, can easily be wiped out by a single Special. But that's just it, I'm not some amateur. I've been dealing with this shit since the beginning. I know just about all there is about killing the Infected and staying alive. I've slayed hundreds, maybe thousands of them, and here I was at the mercy of one insignificant Jockey.

_No…not insignificant. Look what he…it was capable of._

Suddenly I'm reminded of my brother's condition. I scan the rooftop, frantically searching for Russel. I spot him leaning against an air conditioning unit a few yards away.

"Russ!" I call, rushing to his side.

My brother's head jerks up at the sound of my voice.

"Erin!"

He turns in the direction of my approaching footsteps and latches onto me when he feels a hand on his shoulder. "I knew that bastard wouldn't be able to take you down!"

I hiss involuntarily when I see Russel's blood soaked hands, immediately fearing for the worst. My brother draws back slightly, mistaking my outburst as a sign of pain. "Shit, I'm sorry! Are you okay?"

"I-I'm fine," I stammer inspecting his soiled hands, "I'm more worried about you right now." I gently cup my brother's face with a hand and, finally gaining the courage to inspect the injury, tilt his head towards me.

The first thing I check are his eyes which, to my relief, appear not to be damaged, only caked shut in a thick layer of grime and blood. There are shallow scratches all over his face, but nothing looks severe. That is until I brush back Russel's hair, revealing two deep gashes just above the eyebrows. That explains the blood, but what of the grime? I study the oddity, picking my brain for an explanation. Then, something very disturbing occurs to me.

The whole thing seemed…_intentional. _Well, obviously the Jockey meant to inflict injury, but these wounds weren't created by wild thrashing. The gunk was concentrated solely around my brother's eyes. The identical gashes were placed in a location that would, thanks to gravity, keep my brother's vision impaired with a steady flow of blood. This wasn't random.

It was strategic.

And suddenly, this small detail was enough to be more horrifying than the entire encounter.

"Hey!" Marcus calls, interrupting my train of thought. "Are you two alright over there?"

I grab Russel's arm and gently coax him to stand. "Yeah…we're okay." I reply just loud enough for him to hear. My brother grips my shoulder and allows me to slowly lead him to Marcus's location.

"Is that who I think it is?" Russ asks, unable to hide his delight.

"The Jockey?" I answer awkwardly, trying to mask my uneasiness with humor. "Yeah. Turns out he's a pretty cool guy."

My brother snorts, not amused by my reply: "Not quite ready to joke about this sis."

"…I know."

Marcus tenses when he sees my sibling's condition, swearing under his breath. "Christ! This freak of nature did _that_? Oh God, is he-Is Russ-"

"Standing right here, Marc. I'm blind, not deaf." My brother interjects with a chuckle. "Don't worry man; it's not as bad as it looks."

Marcus sighs, being put at ease by Russel's words. "That's good, 'cause you really look like shit." He cracks, his tone teasing.

My brother laughs lightheartedly before offering his own comeback. "Yet I still look better than you."

"How can you be so sure, eagle eye?" Marcus retorts. "For all you know our little friend here has a shot at beating you in this year's pageant." He pats the Jockey on the head not unlike what one would do to a dog. The Jockey snaps at Marc's hand before starting a new cycle of braying as he struggles to gain freedom.

Russel stumbles back in shock, nearly tripping over his own feet. "What the hell?" he squawks, rubbing at his eyes in vain to clear them of debris. His lids flutter but immediately squeeze shut when blood threatens to sting his sensitive eyes. "That thing is still alive? Why haven't you killed it?"

Marcus shrugs. "I thought one of you might want the honor."

My brother opens his mouth to state his opinion, perhaps wanting to point out how it didn't matter who killed the monstrosity, but I step in with my own thoughts.

"We can take care of it later. Right now I need to patch up those gashes and get that shit out of your eyes before you really _do_ go blind."

Russel gawks at me while I retrieve the med kit from Marc's back. Or at least tries to, seeing as he can't pin down my exact location with his impeded sight. "Don't get me wrong, I want this taken care of right away," my brother gestures to his gunked up face, "but I'd feel a _lot _better if we didn't have a Jockey to worry about."

"What's to worry over?" Marcus inquiries. "He's not going anywhere."

"I don't care. He's still _alive_."

"And?"

"He's a threat! And he will remain as such until he's dead."

"But then I can't use him as a chair."

"Wha-? You can still sit on him after he's dead!"

"Yeah, but…that would be weird."

I shake my head as I rifle through the med kit, trying my best to block out the exchange between Marcus and my brother. When I feel satisfied that I have all that I need, I tug Russ's sleeve to get his attention.

"I'm going to need you to sit down okay?"

Russel nods, allowing me to help him take a seat as he mumbles something incoherent, though I have a feeling it has to do with Marcus and his new recliner. I take a clean cloth from the kit and am about to start scrubbing my brother's face when I realize I'm missing a key item.

A swishing sound catches my attention.

"Need some of this?" Marcus offers, holding out a bottle of water.

I smile as he gently tosses it to me. "Yes, that would make this much easier." I unscrew the cap and poor a small amount of liquid onto the cloth before turning back to Russel. I give him a quick warning to brace himself and immediately get to work, thoroughly, yet delicately removing the grime around his eyes.

"So…anyone want to tell me what happened?" Marcus asks.

I pause for a moment, not really sure how to answer. Marc was not the critical type, he wasn't looking for someone to blame for negligence. He was genuinely curious of what led up to our attack. Even so, damaged pride stalled my response.

"Well…" I begin shakily. "We were…"

"Throwing rocks at zombies," Russel cuts in, tone nonchalant, "they started beating the shit out of each other, I laughed my ass off, didn't hear the Jockey, and here we are."

Silence.

"…Why does all the fun stuff happen when I'm not around?"

"What's fun about having a little man take your dignity?" Russel snaps.

"I mean up until that point."

"Oh…yeah, that was pretty damn great."

I firmly grip my brother's jaw, becoming annoyed with his constant fidgeting. "Shut your face so I can do my job." He starts to protest but I quickly silent him with a threat. "If you don't hold still I'm going to make sure you go through with our agreement. You know…with the _brick_."

Marcus makes a bemused sound. I picture his expression under that mask, looking a cross between amusedly curious and slightly concerned, to learn about this arrangement. I turn and mouth 'later', assuring him future elaboration, before returning my attention to the task at hand. The gunk around Russel's eyes had been successfully removed. All that remained now were the gashes above my brother's eyebrows. I wipe away as much blood as I can and, after retrieving some hydrogen peroxide from the medical kit, begin carefully treating the wounds. I study the cuts as I work, trying to determine if they would require stitches. They don't appear to be as deep as I initially thought, so butterfly stitches should be sufficient for now. At least until a proper doctor can inspect the damage. After tackling the biggest concerns, I decide to clean a few of the minor scratches just to be on the safe side. We may be immune to the Green Flu, be that doesn't mean we aren't susceptible to infection.

"Alright, you should be good," I announce, feeling that I've done all that I could do, "try to open your eyes. _Carefully_."

Russel hesitates at first, then, slowly, his eyelids flutter open. He blinks a few times, then looks at us each in turn.

"Your vision okay?" Marcus pipes up.

"Yeah, my eyes are a bit itchy, but other than that they're alright."

"We should test 'em just to be sure." He raises a hand, lowering all fingers but the one in the middle. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Wow. That's really nice Marc." My brother snorts, reaching up to rub at his irritated eyes.

"Hold up! You're hands are filthy!" I scold, grabbing his wrist. "You need to clean them before trying anything like that."

Russel sighs, aggravated, as I pour water over his hands and instruct him to scrub. I can almost hear the 'Yes mom' comeback that I know he so desperately wants to use, but wisely keeps to himself. I fish a hand sanitizer from the kit and have him use it for good measure before moving to treat a few of my own cuts.

We sit in silence for a moment, each lost in our own thoughts. A particularly loud giggle from our prisoner eventually pulls us back to reality.

"Son of a-do you ever shut up?" Marcus barks, aggravated by the Jockey's constant cackling. The Infected chooses to answer by entering a whole new level of hysteria. We all visibly flinch, unnerved by the creature's commotion. A Jockey's laugh isn't exactly a heartwarming sound in the first place, but this was just…_chilling_.

"What is _wrong_ with that thing?" My brother practically shouts, trying to be heard over the Infected's manic vocals.

"_What indeed?" _I wonder, narrowing my eyes at the monstrosity thrashing beneath Marcus. I've encountered many Jockeys, memorized their cries, but I have never heard anything like this. After each breath the Infected emits a series of shrieks, each varying in pitch, before continuing his never ending cycle of giggling. It's so odd, it's almost like he's…

I abruptly get to my feet and, in one swift movement; I'm by the Jockeys side. I plant a foot on the Infected's head and thrust it down with a great amount of force. Not enough to kill it, but just enough to stun the anathema. I hastily position my weight over the leg pressing the head to the ground, preventing the Jockey from opening his jaw, successfully muffling him.

"_Thank you_ Erin." Marcus sighs with relief. "I was about to lose my damn mi-" I cut him off with a hiss, signaling for everyone to be quiet. Russel and Marcus stare at me, baffled by my actions, as I listen for a sign that proves my theory correct, all the while praying to be mistaken.

A distant cry confirms my fears. Luckily, when I say distant, I mean _distant_. I didn't have much trouble picking up on the call, but if the city wasn't so quiet I doubt my companions would have noticed it.

We each exchange a look, a silent conversation passing between us.

"Shit, good catch Erin." Russel breathes, voice shaking slightly. "How the hell did you hear that over all the noise this bastard was making?"

"I didn't." I admit. "I noticed the Jockey's sound was…different; like it was calling for something. I figured it was trying to alert its friends to our location."

Marcus tilts his head toward me. "A Jockey calling for backup? Never seen anything like this before."

"Neither have I, until today," I agree, ",but this thing sure hasn't _acted_ like his mindless cousins."

Marc looks down at the Jockey for a moment, watching as it clumsily swipes at my boot still pressing down on its skull before turning his attention back to me.

"You never did tell me how he did it. How he almost took you and Russel down."

I sigh and look to my brother, hoping for him to aid me in yet another explanation. I don't know what I was expecting to achieve from this. Russ was blind for most of the ordeal; he couldn't exactly paint a picture of our brush with death even if he wanted to. In fact, judging by his expression he is hoping for some answers of his own. And this time, I don't think an inappropriately brief summary would satisfy either party. I decide to waste no more time stalling and dive right into my rather thorough brake down of the assault. I tell them everything, sparing no detail especially when I present my theories. How Russel's blinding wasn't an accident, pointing out the excessive grime and emphasizing the strategic location of the deep gashes. How the Jockey used the environment to his advantage, climbing up the billboard as if to escape, only to use it as a new means of attack.

Marcus shakes his head, trying to make sense of my observations. "So this fucker is intelligent? Fan-freaking-tastic."

"It's comforting to know that the little back humper is aware that his rides rob us of our dignity." My sibling chimes in, his tone riddled with sarcasm.

"I doubt his mind is capable of recognizing such a notion." I interject. "I just think it's safe to say he can easily adapt and has the capacity to learn more efficient methods for taking down prey."

_Jesus, I sound just like __**them**__._

I avert my eyes, suddenly angry with myself for my near perfect parroting of the Shelters. I'm sure the thought must have crossed the minds of my companions, of course that could be my paranoia speaking. Either way, they kindly choose not to comment on my slip.

Russel settles his gaze on the frantic Infected, his features lax as he briefly observes the creature. "If that's the case, I'm just glad we only had to deal with the one. Can you image having to fend off more of these things? Specials are bad enough; we don't need them thinking up new ways of screwing us over."

I couldn't agree more. Had the Jockey been accompanied, we wouldn't be sitting here having this conversation. However…

"I doubt he is the only one of his kind."

Marcus and Russel turn to me, body language demanding elaboration.

"Think about it, he was calling for help. Sure, any other mindless Infected would have been drawn to the noise, but the Jockey wasn't just shrieking at the top of his lungs. There was a pattern to it, like a code. Why go through the effort if there is no one around to understand it?"

My brother buries his face in his hands, fiercely muttering something about 'Goddamn Jockeys' and calling 'zombie bullshit'. Marcus simply lowers his head, contemplating this upsetting revelation. He eventually speaks, voicing his own theory.

"Something tells me Jockeys won't be the only Infected sharing this trait."

The thought sends a chill right through me. Russel swears loudly, cursing the idea of highly intelligent Hunters, Smokers, or, God forbid, _Tanks_, but not denying the likelihood. Our job was difficult enough, even when we thought we had the Infected's behavior down to a science. And here we are, faced with a new challenge. The Infected are changing.

Again.

Marc and I allow my brother to continue venting his frustrations, taking the time to process all that had been said. When Russel ends his rant, Marcus chooses to remind us of his original objective.

"…We should get back to the group before they send someone else. Last thing I want to hear after all this is a lecture over 'respecting time deadlines'."

My brother and I nod before moving to gather our supplies. I pause before completely removing my boot, considering the repercussions should I continue this act. Marcus, who realizes my dilemma, takes over my job of silencing the Infected, positioning himself like one would to pin a crocodile. I mutter my thanks as I turn to retrieve my M1911 that I had dropped during my scuffle with the Jockey, along with anything else my brother and I may have brought with us to the roof. It takes very little time as most of our gear was back with our party. Upon returning to Marcus, I ask the question that was undoubtedly on everyone's mind.

"What about him?" I gesture to the tiring Jockey.

Marc ponders this for a moment. "That's a good question. Our orders are to not kill the Infected unless we are in immediate danger. He's restrained for the moment, so technically we're not in harm's way. Of course, that will quickly change if we let him go. Especially since this is not your average Jockey."

"If our group was up here, they would probably have us bring it back for study." Russel huffs.

My brother had a point. We're occasionally sent out with the goal of retrieving any Infected that exhibit unusual behavior. This usually consists of two categories: New Strain or Potential Cure. The names say it all, New Strain refers to new strains created by the virus and Potential Cure refers to Infected that show signs of fighting off the virus. Until now, we haven't seen anything that would qualify. Most capture missions result with replacements for the hundreds of Commons and Specials already at our labs.

Today, however, was not a day for retrieval. We did not bring anything to aid in capture or containment. Trying to bring this Infected back without any real solid constraints would be suicide. Everyone is aware of the risks, but the Shelters would still insist on trying if they found the specimen to be truly valuable. In my eyes, the only Infected I would consider _valuable_ would be one that could point us to a cure. This Jockey did not meet that requirement.

Apparently, Marcus felt the same way.

"We have enough to deal with; I'm not going to add onto it by dragging around Shits n' Giggles here." He tilts his head toward the Infected, whom had finally tired himself out from constantly thrashing. "Besides, he probably wouldn't survive the trip to the lab. Not if that bullet wound goes untreated, and I don't know about you, but I'm not wasting our dwindling medical supplies on something that sees us as dinner."

That's right; I shot the Jockey didn't I? If not for the blood steadily trickling down its arm, you wouldn't have figured I did any damage by the way it so violently struggled for freedom.

"Can't let it go, can't take it with us…" Russel extends a hand for each option. "That only leaves us with one course of action."

It didn't take a genius to see where my brother was trying to direct us. Hell, he'd been doing everything short of spelling it out for the past twenty minutes. I silently approach Marc's side, bend over, and retrieve his P220 from its holster. I would use my weapon, but I had not bothered to reload it yet, my mind preoccupied with other matters. Marcus, sensing my next move, draws back, releasing the Infected's head. The Jockey barely has time to emit one last hysterical shriek before I press the muzzle of the pistol to its temple and squeeze the trigger.

That's when I surprise myself. During that brief moment when the gunshot drowned out all sound, I uttered something I haven't said in a long time. Not since all this began. Not since the first time I had to take a life.

_I'm sorry._

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Wow, all that crap from _one_ Jockey? This group has quite the shit storm ahead of them. Also, new character! :D By the way, how many of you thought Erin's rescuer was going to be a Hunter? (You know, _until_ you read his description. XD ) When I first typed that scene and read over it, I thought: Holy crap! Something _launches_ itself, a guy, mid twenties, concealed face...oh wait, he's wearing a gas mask not a hood. BD Derp. I'm not sure if anyone else got that, but if you did I'm sure you did a double take. Unintentional surprises are fun. :3


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